


Honey you're familiar

by 1001cranes



Series: WIP Amnesty [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Femdom, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 07:30:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2843060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001cranes/pseuds/1001cranes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where Peter haunts Stiles instead of Lydia, and things get weird(er).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey you're familiar

**Author's Note:**

> Written out for Ro from a chatfic. The things I do for you, bb.
> 
> Rule 63!Peter. Dub-con is the sense Stiles has no idea who Peter really is. Also she's in his head, so that's... possibly non-con? I'm not sure how much control Peter has here, or Stiles.

Pete knew Stiles would be good at this as soon as she'd trained him up a little. It's not just because he's disgustingly easy to please - Stiles is results-based, solution-focused, all about the ends rather than means. He thinks the more orgasms the better, even if they're  _not_ his. It's not like anyone's ever really given him one anyway. 

Pete is the kind of girl who tells Stiles, "fuck, I'm so wet," once they've been making out for a while, just to feel him squirm. She doesn't just feel it, she  _smells_  it, the way Stiles can't. She can smell the way he’d gone hard in his jeans, even if she couldn’t feel it, grinding up against him. She doesn’t mind that he’s on top right now, the heavy length of him, the way even slinky teenage boys like Stiles are surprisingly solid. It's grounding. She needs that. She barely exists here; Stiles tethers her - with his mind, sure, but now his body too.

"Yeah?" Stiles says, and he can't possibly pretend that doesn't turn him on. That he isn't panting into the curve of her neck, nosing his way down her collarbones, kissing whenever he feels the beat of her heart underneath his lips. She’d yanked her tank top down, bra shoved out of the way, and both of Stiles’s hands are full with her breasts, thumbing across the nipples, flicking over them with short, ragged nails. Pete has gone pink and rosy in places, scraped with teeth where Stiles had applied more enthusiasm than technique. Enthusiasm was far more of a prerequisite, as far as Pete was concerned. Technique could come with time; was eminently teachable, and Pete’s a girl for teeth and claws anyway.

“Yeah, I – can I?" a stuttered request, brave and awkward all at once. One hand slipping from tucked inside her shirt to her stomach, thumb on the button of her jeans. Because Stiles can't quite believe his luck - pretty girl in the back of his Jeep, making out with him - but he can't quite help pushing it either.

Pete’s smile is wicked, yes, but it turns into a grin in the end. Something more playful, and she knows the way it affects him. She can feel it, hear his heart beat like a rabbit’s. Like prey.

"Up," is what she says, though, though she thinks about asking him,  _how about you taste?_ , instead. "Let me up," she says, and even if he could keep the disappointment off his face, she can smell the sourness of it. He moves quickly though - he's a good boy all told, Stiles, a nice boy, the kind you'd bring home to dinner, the kind who's heard bits of his father's horror stories and who loved his mother far too much - and Pete sits up when Stiles shuffles back. "Get on your back," she says, and Stiles spends whole seconds goggling while Pete worms her way out of her jeans.

"Your  _back_ ," she says, and Stiles scrambles to comply. Throws himself back so hard he nearly brains himself against the door of the Jeep. She laughs, and if it's a little mean Stiles doesn't notice or care.

She's so wet she's soaked through, a neat little damp patch in the front, Pete notes, and it feels good to rock up against her fingers, the flat of her palm. The way Stiles watches - gaze flicking from her face to her fingers, the way his tongue darts out to wet his already cherry lips - is gratifying in a way she can't properly explain. It’s been so long since she’s done this, any of it. Her redheaded nurse was a darling, devoted in the extreme, but woefully lacking in some of the parts Pete most preferred. Even when Peter had recovered enough to enjoy herself again, there were more pressing matters to attend to.

“You're going to be so good at this,” is what she says, pushing her panties down, out of the way. Puts two fingers at the corner of her mouth, tracing that sweet dimple. Two fingers smelling like her cunt, and he sucks them into his mouth without any prompting. He lets her hold him down. No talking about it, not one word. Just adapting. Her legs tucked under the starfish of his arms, holding down Stiles's hands so he can't use them. 

She thinks _, oh, I want to bruise you. I want to scratch up the paint job so everyone knows you're mine. I_ _’_ _m going to ruin you._

"So good," she says again, this time just for him, because when Pete picks them she  _picks_  them, her instincts have always been her strength, and she presses her cunt up against his face. His warm mouth, big and soft, that face - boyish smooth, not a hint of stubble at all, fuck, a baby, a little lost lamb with a spark to reignite her, to bring her back to a roiling, destructive flame. But to bring her to orgasm, first. There are steps to this sort of thing, and Pete has her own priorities.

Pete grinds up against Stiles, ruts up against his mouth, his sweet little teeth catching at her, his big soft mouth of them. When she has to she pulls back so Stiles can breathe, a bit, so he can gasp for air when she allows. Suck whole lungfuls in and blow it back across her, body-warm but still shivering cold where she's wet. 

(Stiles, meanwhile, is starting to realize he might have been watching the wrong kind of porn, because this is a new and startling view - the tuft of hair, Peter's quivering stomach, breasts spilling out over her shirt and over her bra, flushed from the neck down. He can - he can  _smell_  her, fuck, he doesn't know what he's doing, exactly, new to this, new to everything. Pete makes a lot of noise but that's not helping Stiles figure out what she  _likes_ , exactly -)

Tracing the folds with his tongue, rubbing the hard nub of her clit up against the flat of his tongue - which would get her off, sure, Pete thinks, but she's just spent the last few weeks in the ground feeding the worms, doesn't she deserve  _more_?

" _In_  me,” she says, and when he shoves his tongue inside of her, she moans a little, grunts, dirty and satisfied and not at all for Stiles's benefit.  She thinks about letting him use his fingers, his wonderfully long fingers, about having him inside her – deeper than his tongue, harder, more agile, pressing all those perfect little places - the clusters of nerves that can make her writhe. Makes her thigh muscles tighten, like when she is about to change – she won’t, of course; if she was being perfectly honest she isn’t sure she can, stuck in this not-quite body, not-quite alive, not-quite werewolf, digging her way out of the ground by digging her way into Stiles's head - but it's a good feeling, a powerful one -

Pete's controlled men before, easily - sometimes with the soft secret heart of her, the part men desire to the point of control, of legislation and name-calling and jokes and violence, when the truth is they let themselves be led around so easily. Eagerly, even. And Stiles is smart - Pete wouldn't like him nearly enough if he was - but he's like all men, in some ways, and Pete can't help preying on them. She's never made any bones about the fact she's an animal, really; she has has no problem with it, but Stiles has too many werewolves in his life already.

(If this is anything how Scott feels about Allison, Stiles thinks, he gets it, he  _gets_  it).

Of course, Pete says that like  _having him_  is a torture.

"I'm close," she says, because it's only polite to warn a boy when you're grinding down on his face, and it makes Stiles wild, makes the smell of him flare and thicken, and she tries not to dig her nails too hard into his wrists. Concentrates on riding it out instead, writhing around until the feeling goes, all the sparks of electricity throbbing their way out of her. 

She wants to collapse on top of Stiles, really, right where she is, but smothering her sweet little human boy isn't the best of plans. She pulls back a little instead, lets him lick her clean, as clean as he can. Long swipes of his tongue. Slow, a little indulgent. Almost like a kiss, and then she slides back so she can look at her handiwork. Stiles's wet face, flushed and hungry. Happy. Proud. And now that her own want has... not abated, precisely, never really abated, but  _waned_ , certainly... she can smell his. Hear it in the thudding of heart. That he hasn’t gone off yet on his own – sweet little virgin, not that she expects  _that_  to last much longer – is a little miracle of his own. His hips are twitching and tensing. Trying to gain traction inside of his own jeans, in the sticky patch of precome. Aching for that moment of release.

She thinks about making him jerk off for her, long clever fingers wet with spit and whatever he wipes from his own face. Smelling like her. Desperate and wanton and so eager to please, even then. She thinks about riding him, about the hopeful little condom he has tucked away in his pocket, thin, stingy metallic and latex smell, but she decides against it; she's really not that sort of girl. Or not today she isn’t, which is nearly the same thing.

She's still deciding, thinking it through, when he leans his head against the inside of one thigh. Ticklish. "Again?" he asks, still breathless, still catching up on all the air he missed. Another lick over his lips, a careful swipe, and Pete might have underestimated the  _hunger_  of young boys, hasn't she, it's been so damn long.

_Brand new paintjob,_ she thinks _. All scratched up._

And then she says  “yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> The bits-written next part has pegging, humiliation, maybe spanking. I'll see how I feel about it. 
> 
> Changes of continuance: low middling.


End file.
